


adventures in hairdressing

by silversoliloquy



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, domestic sappiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 07:03:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9645542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silversoliloquy/pseuds/silversoliloquy
Summary: A quiet evening in the Tardis





	

There’s nothing like a long, hot bath to unwind after a long day of people trying to kill you, Charley had decided immediately after moving into the Tardis.  This is a universal fact, she assumes, but it’s especially true given the vast array of bubble baths and scented oils stocked in the Tardis bathroom (well, one of the Tardis bathrooms, but this one always seems to appear near her room when she’s especially tired).  She usually foregoes the hair dryer, though—the Doctor showed her how to use it once, but it always blows too-hot air in her face and makes her hair stick up in odd ways when she tries it herself.  Wretched piece of technology.

She towels her hair off instead, trying not to drip water down the back of her warm pajama top, as she wanders through the quiet Tardis halls.  She’s not quite ready for bed yet, and the only thing better than a bath is a few peaceful hours with the Doctor.

She finds him in the library, as usual, with two cups of tea waiting.  She sips hers gratefully as she settles in; it’s the herbal blend she likes to have in the evenings—well, the relative evenings—while the Doctor’s cup is his usual oversteeped earl gray.  He’s so bouncy all the time, she has no idea if cutting off his supply of caffeine would make any noticeable difference.

The Doctor tuts at her hair, still damp and bedraggled from her careless toweling, and beckons her to his end of the sofa, abandoning his book and teacup to produce a comb from one of his bottomless pockets.  “Charlotte Pollard, I imagine your mother would have some things to say about your hair care routine,” he says, settling her in front of him, and Charley laughs.

“You should’ve heard the fit she threw when I came home with it cut short,” she says.  “I think she’s long given up that fight.”

“Well, I haven’t,” he retorts, and sets about attacking the wet tangles.  He goes slowly enough not to pull, and works out some of the bigger knots with his fingers before he goes over them with the comb, and it’s—lovely.  Her mother would have a thing or two to say about the way she practically melts into his lap, that’s for sure.

The Doctor chatters as he works, as usual—something about 51st century conditioners and the near-miraculous properties thereof, and how he’s going to take her to one of the massive spas there next time they want a holiday, but Charley doesn’t bother listening too closely.  The fine comb feels nice on her scalp, and the Doctor’s careful hands feel even nicer.  Between that, the warmth of the tea, and the lovely cadence of his voice in her ear, she wants to curl up like a cat in his lap and fall asleep right there.  There’s probably a reason that would be a bad idea, but she can’t think what it is right now.

“There—all finished,” the Doctor says finally, and Charley mourns the loss of the comb for a moment before the Doctor begins carding through the strands with his fingers, checking for hidden tangles or styling it somehow or just playing with it, in the absent way he does sometimes.

“It’s getting quite long, isn’t it?” he adds, and Charley forces herself to focus enough to answer.

“It has grown out a bit,” she admits.  “I haven’t had it cut since the R101—well, it’s difficult to find a salon in the midst of uncovering alien plots and staging revolutions and running for our lives and whatnot.”

The Doctor hums noncommittally.  “I never bother with haircuts much, myself.  I never seem to remember to make an appointment.”

“I never would have guessed,” says Charley wryly.

“Still,” he muses, curling a lock around his fingers, “I could cut yours for you, if you want.”

“What, really?”

“I’ll have you know, Miss Pollard, I am a veritable artisan with a pair of scissors,” he says sternly, as Charley giggles.  “Why, Kenneth Battelle himself said—”

Charley groans.  “Oh, no, no name dropping, it’s too late for name dropping!  I haven’t the faintest idea who that is, anyways.”

“He styled Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn’s hair, among other things.”

“I don’t know who they are, either!”

“Ah that’s right, you wouldn’t, would you.”  He huffs a quiet laugh, and he’s still close enough that his breath stirs her hair.  It’s not exactly unusual—the man has absolutely no sense of personal space—but Charley pauses to savor the moment anyways.

“At any rate, I could cut your hair for you,” he adds.  “If you’d like me to.”

Well, it _has_ been annoying her a bit—it’s long enough to touch her shoulders now, and it keeps getting in her face.  It’s nearly impossible to keep track of time in the Tardis, but she probably would’ve gotten it trimmed by now if she were still back home.

It’s odd, thinking about the life she would be leading if she hadn’t made the decision to board the R101; she doesn’t much like dwelling on it, even the harmless little domestic details like haircuts.  “Would I have to move?” she says instead.  “I’m too tired to move.  My feet refuse to be of service, after all that running they did today.”  She wiggles her toes in the air, to demonstrate.

“Of course not!  Let’s see, I have scissors in my pocket somewhere—one moment—ah yes, and this will do nicely.”  He grabs the quilt draped over the back of the sofa and wraps it around Charley’s shoulders, a makeshift barber’s smock.

“Won’t the hair get on the sofa?”

“Yes, but we can clean it up later.  Or the Tardis can.  Either way, not a concern.”

“If you say so.”

“Quite.  Now, what length would you like?  A trim, or a bit shorter?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know.  Can you put it back the way it was when we met?”

The Doctor considers this, tugging at locks of hair and fussing with his comb.  “I think we can manage that, yes.  It was about the length of your chin, wasn’t it?  A little longer, to allow for the curl.”

“Whatever you think is best, Doctor,” she says—name dropping aside, he probably does know more about hairdressing than she does—and closes her eyes contentedly as the rhythmic _snip snip_ of scissors starts up behind her.  The Doctor hums as he works instead of chattering (Charley hopes it’s because he’s busy concentrating on making sure the ends are even), something operatic sounding that she vaguely recognizes from one of his records.  Even if she looks in the mirror in the morning to find a dreadful mess, it will have been worth it, she decides, and hums along with the melody.


End file.
